Years of love, never forgot
by celestialscribe
Summary: Wolfstar. Sirius had just escaped Azkaban. Remus reflects on the last time he saw the man before learning of his betrayal, weighing out his love and hate. With a pinch of Edgar Allen Poe thrown in.


_Years of love have been forgot,_

_In the hatred of a minute._

Reading the works of Edgar Allen Poe, one would not presume life was easy. Remus Lupin had always been attracted to his poetic works for that very reason. Life _wasn't _easy, as he knew full well. But on this, a much quoted segment of his poem, _To – I heed not to my earthly lot_, Poe was mistaken. Some love even hate couldn't obliterate. Remus could fight it, suppress it, _loathe_ himself for it, but love would never cease nor relinquish him from its suffocating grip.

Remus had hated Sirius Black for far longer than a minute. It had been twelve years since that first excruciating minute in which the flames of hate had initially been lit. The sting of betrayal still burned raw in his chest, crippling him in ways that he'd never thought possible. He'd been careful. He'd been guarded, keeping his distance, but somehow Sirius had wormed his way in regardless only to crush his heart and leave him broken beyond repair. Because of Sirius Black, Remus not only suffered on the night of the full moon. He suffered every hour, every minute, every _second _of every day. He'd grown accustomed to the pain of transformations; bones snapped beneath his skin, veins twisted until he was sure his blood would burst from his body, all the while coherent words of protest were lost amidst the snarls and deathly howl of the resentful wolf.

However as painful as his transformations were, _this_ was something far worse. Loathing a man beyond comprehension._ Loving_ him beyond comprehension. This was something he had not endured since memories first took form in his mind. This was something distinctly foreign; it invaded his senses until he was rendered lifeless, depriving him of everything worth feeling, much like the dementors that guarded the culprit's cell. Remus couldn't shake the notion that there was something inherently _wrong_ about feeling this; love and hate were contradictions, yet Remus harboured both. Both love and hate filled the void in his chest which was all that remained of Sirius, the only reminder that those glorious days had ever come to pass. It tore him apart from within, more potent than the curse, until it was a wonder that it hadn't done away with him altogether. Remus had proved that in reality he was far more resilient than he'd ever hoped to be. Sirius might be in the hopeless domain of Azkaban, but Remus served penance of his own, guilty of trusting the man who had brought this bitter fate upon him.

It had been twelve years since he'd set his eyes on that face. Yet there it sat, plastered on the front of the Daily Prophet which lay abandoned on the table before him. That morning, the barn owl had flitted to his window later than usual, tapping franticly at the pane of glass with its beak until he eventually opened it with a perfunctory wave of his hand. He had untied the newspaper from about its talons as he did each morning, unceremoniously dropping it on the kitchen table before giving the owl the coins it was due. He'd proceeded to busy himself with the kettle and fix his morning pot of tea. Only when he'd sat down at the pitiful excuse for a dining table did he glance at the covering page and when he did the steaming mug of tea he clasped in one hand slipped from his grip. In mere seconds, it pooled across the table, seeping into the yellow pages of the paper before spilling onto his lap and scolding his thighs. A hissed stream of curses left Remus' lips at the searing pain but rather than mopping up his trousers and tending to the burn, he instinctively grabbed his wand and waved the paper clean. As he did, he couldn't help but peer into the eyes that he had fought both to recall and force from his mind. An expression of malevolence laced with remorse threatened him, scarred features contorted in an ugly frown, but it was quickly replaced with something else.

_ESCAPE FROM AZKABAN_ was the headline.

_Sirius escaped._

Remus felt pride. He'd finally done it. Then shame washed over him at the mix of emotions that he'd welcomed, hope flitting through his mind. He wasn't _allowed_ to love this man any longer. Not even that, but the man he'd cared for simply ceased to exist.

No. That man had _never_ existed. Even now, he had to remind himself of the extent of Sirius' betrayal. _It was only ever lies, solely lies and nothing more. _Yet even now he saw not the madness that contorted the features and flared in the eyes of his once lover. He saw the last thing he'd wanted to see after twelve years of bitter loathing and regret. Sirius. _His_ Sirius. Padfoot.

Remembering that his trousers were still soaked through with tea, a convenient escape from the eyes that burned through him from the front page of the paper, Remus relieved himself of that familiar face. Tearing his eyes away as if the sight offended him, Remus stole into the next room to change into fresh clothing despite the fact that he could have cleaned himself off with a wand as easily as he did the tabletop. Trembling fingers fumbled with the button and zip, a shaky sigh escaping his lips, as Remus threatened to break down and either cry convulsively as if he was nothing more than the boy he'd been when he'd first fallen for the Black, or smash anything and everything within reach. Of course, neither suited him. That fateful night had taught him better then to surrender to his emotions. As much as he may _feel_, something which Sirius pointed out each and every day back at Hogwarts, he did an awful lot of _not_ feeling when he could help it. _Feeling only provokes further feeling._

Letting his eyes fall shut, it had been Remus' intention to cease feeling altogether, a ritual he performed every day, however this particular morning was seemingly the exception. Remus was met with nothing but failure. He found himself looking into those deep, sunken orbs, the stormy depths of which he'd lost himself in all too easily in the past; their steely sheen, the mischief that masked the resentment and bitterness that was so _cunningly_ concealed that you'd be sure to miss it if you weren't attentive. That haughty smirk tempered only by the tragedy of his life, one which he had come to admire, _love _even, despite it being one of Sirius' many flaws. Remus could remember each as vividly as the back of his hand.

_His last words. _

"We're out of milk."

...

"Moony."

Remus had been feeling ratty, dilapidated. He'd been on a mission, as if that was an excuse. Sirius had laid into him more than usual only the previous night and Remus had still resented him for it. It wasn't as if he didn't want to tell him everything. Admittedly, there were some details he'd rather keep to himself, such as what he'd felt upon meeting Fenrir Greyback for the first time. He could have easily killed the man. That is to say, he had the will for it whilst lacking the recklessness.

Sirius didn't trust him. He hadn't trusted him for months. Remus had to ask himself why but the only conclusion he could draw was the simple fact that he was a werewolf. He'd thought it hadn't mattered, especially with Sirius of all people, Sirius who had endured every full moon alongside him.

Sirius may have loved James differently. But he loved him _more_. That was determined the moment he'd trusted the others over him, he who lay beside him every night and chased away the suspicion with eager lips and a touch more tender than the raven-haired man deserved.

But then Sirius did something unexpected. Disregarding the fact that Remus was blatantly ignoring him, head buried in a book where he sat at his old rickety desk, Sirius approached him. Running gentle fingertips through his hair then along the back of his neck, tracing a faint scar that hindered his pale skin, he'd whispered those words into his ear, words that rendered Remus' efforts useless by tearing down every wall he'd raised around himself to protect him from the threat this man posed. Sirius didn't use them often; the cost was too great considering that what it meant was something almost as sinister as being a werewolf.

"I love you, Remus Lupin."

At the impact of those words, Remus' eyes fell shut, the affection laced in Sirius' voice enough to penetrate his resistance. Sirius had reminded him what it was to be loved. And yet Remus said nothing, Sirius walked out the door, and he hadn't come back.

Remus could only hazard a guess at what actions had followed those words. Sirius had gone to his master, never _intending_ to come back. He'd done away with James, Lily, Peter... Harry...

It was_ this_ that left Remus perplexed. Remus could accept betrayal, just as he could accept that nothing he felt for Sirius was ever returned in any earnest. He accepted that it was all part of a grand scheme, a masterful game of deception that had them _all_ fooled. But Harry? Sirius loved Harry, absolutely and without a doubt. Remus never once admitted that he questioned the accusations against Sirius; the absence of a logical explanation merely served to thwart any feeling of doubt regardless. Yet from time to time, such as this moment when the ghost of _his_ Sirius had unexpectedly sprung up on him, he recalled that simple fact. Sirius would have died for Harry. He'd watched in admiration as he'd wiped the tears from the child's eyes and reduced himself to baby-talk and absurd expressions in order to conjure a laugh from the boy. Remus had witnessed first-hand how much Sirius cared for the boy. _That_ was no lie.

The memory stung. Twelve years ago, Sirius Black had wrenched his world apart. Remus would be damned if he was going to let him do it again. With a sharp intake of breath, a feeble attempt at summoning the strength to see the day through to the end, Remus proceeded to dress before returning to the kitchen, pointedly turning his gaze anywhere but on the newspaper. That face had haunted him ever since he'd last seen it, hot breath against the back of his neck and soft lips brushing his ear as he uttered those words, pleasing to the ear despite their meaning being pure poison. Quickly turning it over so that there was little more than a Zonko's advertisement on display, Remus returned the kettle to the hob, reheating the water in an attempt at another cup of tea. Leaning his hands against the kitchen counter in order to steady himself against the force of seeing Sirius again and all that was resurfaced as a result, Remus returned to his morning ritual, a life in solitude, a life of torment as the balance between love and hate tipped from one to the other.

_It's just a morning like any other._

It pained him how much truth there was to that statement. Years of love were never forgotten. He hated Sirius almost as much as he hated himself; he hated that Sirius had cost his friends _everything_, yet left _him _in this meaningless existence. Sirius had never loved him, for if he had he would never have landed himself a cell in Azkaban. He would have come home. They could have taken care of Harry themselves, or better yet, James and Lily would still be alive. Remus wouldn't be alone and full of such aggravating bitter regret; he'd be strong, content, and _whole_ with Padfoot by his side.

Sirius' last words_._ To say those words plagued him was to put it lightly. As if etched on his mind, they were inescapable. However their true meaning was lost amidst layer upon layer, year upon year, of guilt, guilt for ever believing them in the first place. And yet, as if his very existence depended on it, as if it was the only thing keeping him from succumbing to the grief that had turned his world cold, Remus could do nothing _but_ believe them.

_Sirius Black. I loved you then. Merlin knows why, but I love you now. One day it might just kill me, but I will never stop loving you._

Nothing could undo the yearning he felt to return to those days, as tainted as they were by the fate that had befallen them. Days in which Remus was ignorant to the wrong that had been done him, days in which there was war but also friends, friends who provided the family Remus was now without; days in which he'd so blindly, _blissfully_ believed Sirius had meant every word. Years of love were _never_ forgotten; neither a minute of hate nor twelve years of it could release Remus from the hold love had on him.


End file.
